Sing Us a Song, Roderich! You're the Piano Man!
by See Through the Mist
Summary: "I slightly wish for someone to tell each of their tales. From how they were born, to who they were, to how they came into this pub and stayed, and if they were to get out, what would they do. Sometimes I wonder if that is what I am doing, and that is why they always come to hear me play. It is then that I wish for someone to tell my tale."


Ah! I'm pretty sure this is my first song fic, but, whatever! I heard "The Piano Man" by Billy Joel come on, and that reminded me of a YouTube video called, wait for it... "Sing Us a Song, Roderich! You're the Piano Man!" Yeah, I know, that's the name of the story, but I got permission, so suck it! And then I watch said video and boom! I had to make a fic out of it. I'm pretty sure you can tell who each person is, so I really hope I don't have to tell anyone.

And go listen to the long, the music makes up a pretty good chunk of it!

-RMS

* * *

I slowly drink my liquor as I gaze at the crowd. It's nine o'clock on a Saturday, so it's just the regular crowd for the evening. I sigh into my glass before knocking the rest of the liquor back, resting the cup back on the bar. I stand up from my chair, tipping my hat to the bartender, and make my way over to my piano bench. As I sit, I notice an older gentleman sitting beside the piano; swirling his tonic and gin, sipping from it in a slow fashion.

_It's nine o'clock on a Saturday;_

_The regular crowd shuffles in._

_There's an old man sitting next to me,_

_Makin' love to his tonic and gin._

He notices me. As we face one another, I take in that, even though I know by his sagging shoulders and the cane he lightly rests his right hand on, he looks much too young. His clothes consist of plain loafers and old brown trousers, a worn out shirt and a tattered hat. His wise, gold eyes give me a sad look as he rolls his left shoulder; letting his brown, ponytail'd hair swing down his back.

He looks back at me after downing his own drink, snapping it down to the table; much as I did not too long ago. He leans over, setting most of his weight on his cane, and says, "Son, can you play me a memory?" I blink and take off my glasses to clean them on my purple coat. His old form is hazy and only partial with my sight tampered without my glasses and my brown hair in the way. When I lift my head I raise an eyebrow at his words. I ask, "Do you mean melody?" He laughs, a deep chuckle in his chest, before replying, "No. I'm not really sure how it goes, but it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete," He pauses and the sad look in his eyes becomes a deep, painful ache, but he continues, "When I wore a younger man's clothes."

I knew that painful ache in his eyes. Not that I've felt it before, but I've seen it many a time before. So, I nod and poise my fingers over the piano, and hope I can make this old man in his tattered wear feel like a younger man with hopes and dreams. I do hope I can give this man a melody for his memory and hope that he never has to make a wish on someone else.

_He says, "Son, can you play me a memory?_

_I'm not really sure how it goes._

_But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete,_

_When I wore a younger man's clothes."_

_La la la, di da da_

_La la, di di da da dum_

_Sing us a song, you're the piano man,_

_Sing us a song tonight!_

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody,_

_And you've got us all feelin' alright!_

After a few rounds of songs, and after the old man patted my shoulder with a smile and left, I found myself once again at the bar. One of the bartenders, Gilbert, is an... old friend of mine. We never really get along with the other, but he has his merits. The white headed man get's me my drinks for free, and he's quick to joke or light up your smoke. He's a good man. But, like the rest of us, there's somewhere else that he'd rather be.

_Now John at the bar is a friend of mine,_

_He gets me my drinks for free._

_And he's quick with a joke or a light up your smoke,_

_But there's some place that he'd rather be._

He sets my usual drink of schnapps. I swirl it a few times before knocking it back and thumping the tumbler back to the wood. I glance over to my old friend, confused as I spy a frown set into the contours of his face. He saw me looking and sighed before leaning over to say, "Roderich, I believe this is killing me." I knew he was tired, but what did he mean by that?

He took one look at my face before continuing, "Well, I'm sure that I could be a movie star, if I could get out of this place." Ah, so _that's_ what this is about. Not that this was a good thing in anyway, but it meant he just felt the usual pang of regret. I could only nod at him. We both knew that there was almost no way of leaving once you're in. The old man was proof of that. Gilbert was proof of that.

I was proof of that.

_He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me."_

_As his smile ran away from his face,_

_"Well I'm sure that I could be a movie star,_

_If I could get out of this place."_

_Oh, la la la, di da da_

_La la, di da da da dum_

As I lean with my back to the bar, I simply looked out into the audience. There was Ludwig, a real estate novelist. He's Gilbert's younger brother, not that the young blonde man knew. Neither men looked alike, and being the bastard son that Gilbert was, I could see why he didn't want to tell Ludwig. Poor Ludwig though, having been around a wonderful, cheerful woman his entire life, yet never had time for her. He never bothered with a wife.

I notice he was talking to someone and see that he's speaking with an older gentleman, definitely not as old as the gentleman before, but older nonetheless. It was Kiku, a Japanese man who was in the Navy. I felt poor for him as well. The calm dark haired man would probably stay in the Navy until the day he dies.

_Now Paul is a real estate novelist,_

_Who never had time for a wife._

_And he's talkin' with Davy, who's still in the Navy;_

_And probably will be for life._

As my break drags closer and closer to ending, I see the brown haired waitress at the other end of the bar. With a book in front of her and her mouth moving to pronounce words I never thought I word hear coming from her, I could see she was practicing politics. I always wondered why she always wanted to serve next to the lawyers and more upscale workers; it seemed she was gaining tips from them. Elizabeta, that was her name. A smart girl, as she was now listening in to a group of businessmen's conversation.

The businessmen consisted of a rowdy group of men, though they seemed stoned. Four light haired men; regulars, and I knew them by name. Alfred, quite a dashing American, tips well for sure. Next to him is his brother, Matthew; a quiet young man who always seemed relaxed. Then there was Arthur, a Brit by the way he talked, and a temper that made him glow red with a foul mouth to match. Lastly there was a Frenchman whom always insisted on flirting with everyone, including me one time.

Yet I could see that the loneliness was dragging their mood down as well. But, I suppose, it's better to be lonely surrounded by people then to be lonely all by yourself. Then it's not loneliness, it's depression.

I've seen more than just one man fall into that pit and never come back out.

_And the waitress is practicing politics,_

_As the businessmen slowly get stoned._

_Yes, they're sharing a drink they call loneliness,_

_But it's better than drinkin' alone._

_Sing us a song you're the piano man,_

_Sing us a song tonight!_

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody,_

_And you got us all feeling alright!_

I take a look back up at the people who came in. It's a Saturday, and though it's just the usual crowd, there's quite a bit of people. A nice sized crowd. I look over my shoulder as I start up on another song and see the manager give me a smile. He's a bigger man, named Ivan, but I know he's not a bad man. He's plagued with loneliness just like the rest of us, but he can't help but love that other's are lonely; it gives his business profit.

He loves me too. He know that most of the people that come are just trying to escape life- and my music helps them in their endeavor.

_It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday,_

_And the manager gives me a smile._

_'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see;_

_To forget about life for a while._

Ah, my piano, it sounds like a carnival! The laughs of the children and the screams of those on the rides. It speaks of chaos and happiness, of freedom and love. The microphone smells of beer, most likely thanks to Gilbert for testing our heritage out on a few rounds of the finest beer this pub could afford. Most come up and speak with me as I play and in between sets. They are confused and wonder, as they tip me for playing them cords of life and lost loves, letting themselves lose their minds in my music, "Man, what are you doin' here?"

I used to be in an amazing, proud orchestra, but like the people here, I simply lost my way.

_And the piano, it sounds like a carnival,_

_And the microphone smells like a beer._

_And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar_

_And say, "Man, what are you doin' here?"_

_Oh, la la la, di da da_

_La la, di da da da dum_

As I lock up the place and head back to my home, I can't help but to think about everyone that I saw today, and will most likely see tomorrow. The old man, I see only every once in a while, but I can always feel his wise, old eyes burning into my neck, wondering if I'd be more or turn out like him.

Then there's Gilbert, that man... he _could_ be so much more. Yet, he never really tries and so I can't help but wonder what would happen if he did manage it. I fear he would leave me behind with this past.

Next, as I walk upon the cracked sidewalk, I think about Gilbert's brother, Ludwig, and the Navy man, Kiku. I hope that Ludwig can find someone that he would stop everything for, yet, I can't see that ever happening. Now, Kiku, I just don't know what to think. He's been in the Navy as long as I've been at this job. I don't think he _can_ change.

Now for Elizabeta. I can see her gaining her way out of this place. She's smart and has a wicked tongue, could probably take out those businessmen. Speaking of those men... they've been at this for too long. They've taken this life as their own, no hope for them to revert back. Loneliness has captured these four men and has grouped them together.

Lastly is Ivan, the manager. I heard what happened to his sisters, and can't help but cringe. His older sister sounded sweeter than honey while his younger sister seemed lovely. Now if only he could feel their love, but I'm afraid his heart froze over once his wife died. A beautiful brunette, but sadly, unless it was her love, I doubt Ivan could take anyone else's.

I slightly wish for someone to tell each of their tales. From how they were born, to who they were, to how they came into this pub and stayed, and if they were to get out, what would they do. Sometimes I wonder if that is what I am doing, and that is why they always come to hear me play.

It is then that I wish for someone to tell my tale.

_Sing us a song you're the piano man,_

_Sing us a song tonight!_

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody,_

_And you got us all feeling alright!_


End file.
